


Smoke and Mirrors

by bearwald



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Nick Carraway like behavior, much more lace than is entirely necessary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 22:32:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1202959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearwald/pseuds/bearwald
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It was Tino's lace covered legs straddled over his own, and Tino's hands- small, as he expected, but confident and sure- that found their way to the buttons holding Berwald together. His lips that kissed his ear, his neck, his jaw, his chest, his stomach- him. It was very much so Tino that whispered stifled words into his skin, and Tino that made his stomach twist & heart drop." A little ficlet about Berwald's first night out on the town, thanks to a pushy friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke and Mirrors

Mathias promised him one night, one carefree night to forget about the world. Mathias was generally quite good at distracting people from the world, with his alcohol or the endless number of connections he seemed to possess, and Berwald never complained when one of the benefits was offered to him. He just settled on drowning himself in alcohol until he couldn’t think straight, content with the idea that perhaps he wouldn’t remember tonight by the time morning came around. 

Berwald had always been a rather lonely child, and unsurprisingly, a lonely adult as well. He fell asleep at exactly nine o'clock every night, and awoke at five am on the dot every morning, not quite content, but never openly upset, with the absence of a body weighing down the bed next to him. He would hate to have the precise schedule he had kept since he was young interrupted. Or so he told himself. Another numbing technique, Mathias would always claim. He forced himself into being content with repetition, although, Berwald thought it was all fine. He was very happy. 

Tonight, of course, his schedule was derailed. It was nine when he started to drink, and he couldn’t think straight enough to note the time when he stopped. In a sense, it was as if he had fallen asleep at nine. His brain had, and his body may as well have with the way it lied there on the springy hotel bed, unmoving and unresponsive. 

As he lied there, he noted all of the colors present in the old room. Brown, navy blue, and red. Although, the red was just a dried splatter on the wall, so it wasn’t exactly meant to be in the color scheme. There was a faint yellow light showing from behind dust covered blinds, so he decided to count yellow as well, after a few moments of debate. Perhaps longer. He couldn’t keep track of time well anymore. 

The clock pointed to eleven and two minutes when the door creaked open, and Berwald made a mental check of the horrible time. Not quite eleven, and far from midnight. It felt foreign and dug under his skin, the effects of the alcohol leaving just at the shock of abnormality and change that made its way into his mind. As soon as the thought was there, his mind couldn’t tear away. 

“Excuse me, do I have the right room?”

In a millisecond, or maybe even less, all anxieties left Berwald’s mind. The voice coming from the doorway was soft and light, far too relaxing to be safe. The way he spoke carried a tune, drifting in and filling the room like the smoke present from earlier guests. It stained the walls, marked their place. He was no longer a guest, this was a memory-- the way the air felt, too warm and sticky for the time of year, sinking into the bedsheets, the look of the red stains splattered across brown walls; the light air that left his guest’s lips, and the blurry vision of the dirty blankets Berwald lied across. 

“Y’do.” 

Berwald was afraid, if only for a moment, that the face he met would not match the voice his ears had grown so attached to. Upon turning though, he wasn’t disappointed. The man’s eyes were a deep blue, nearly purple, even (although, perhaps that was the alcohol), crinkled up in the quietest manner, with the suggestion of a grin, and the light air of a giggle. His lips were equally as delicate, shaped in arches like swings traveled in the summertime, careless and curled upwards towards the sky. His nose was small, tinted like it had been kissed by roses or fairies, if he let his mind wander a bit too much. 

Berwald’s eyes shifted down his body, pale yet warm and comfortable and decidedly too inviting. His fingers stirred at the thought of running his hands down his curved hips to the pale lace that barely covered him. He felt dizzy as the man walked over, immediately seating himself across Berwald’s lap, a curious smile resting across his lips. 

“I’m Tino.” 

Tino. 

It was Tino’s lace covered legs straddled over his own, and Tino’s hands-- small, as he expected, but confident and sure-- that found their way to the buttons holding Berwald together. His lips that kissed his ear, his neck, his jaw, his chest, his stomach-- him. It was very much so Tino that whispered stifled words into his skin, and Tino that made his stomach twist and his heart drop. 

But it was only when Tino was asleep (content with the thought that Berwald was safe and that Berwald would not hurt him-- probably because of the way he lied there so helplessly, it was obvious he would do nothing to him) that he whispered his name, “Berwald”, to him. 

Perhaps he thought it best Tino never heard, but he still wanted to say it, as if to solidify himself in this moment, or maybe he was simply drunk and confused and he hadn’t quite remembered just what his name was, and he had felt the need to reassure himself that yes, he was Berwald, and he had not, in fact, fallen asleep at precisely nine o’clock. 

Honestly though, he was quite liking two past eleven, and twenty minutes to two. He didn’t like six and seventeen minutes, when he felt a rush of cold air hit his skin though, and the now familiar weight exit the bed. He felt a loss, and a pain deep inside his chest. His eyes barely opened to see Tino leave, a gentle smile on his lips. His smooth skin had since been covered with thick wool, and he let off an air of thickness around him, weighing Berwald down and chaining him to the suddenly uncomfortable bed. He may have said something, but Berwald didn’t hear a word. He was trying to recall his night, desperately pulling at memories of laughter and kisses, and eyelashes fluttering across bare skin. All he could pull up was shouting and springs pressed into his spine, hot and sweaty fingers sticking to his skin. 

When he rose, finally, he drank down the remainder of his stash of alcohol. He enjoyed the memories much better this way, he had decided.


End file.
